My hands type nothingness into the projection of a failed masterpiece.
The delete button has become my fingers button; their dates have become more and more frequent: one is louder than the other.
My mind is a vacuum; the only thing it does is it scorns the words I read: their children.
The rules are once learned are scarred on the back of my head; they are wounds; they force me to stop.
My head is heavy, heavy with all the shit it wishes to vomit: thoughts and thoughts and thoughts of a scarce nuisance that blend to become one, awkward no.
Perfection fights productivity, which fights punctuation, which fights creativity. The last word in this senseless sentence ruined it.
Still, I can write about not writing at all; is it really a block, or is it just in my mind?